Tuesday, 4 December 2012

A Middle School Lacrosse Team from 1970 (e.g. a dream of Wes Anderson)

As I write less and less on this blog, I'm wondering if it isn't morphing into a tumblr account. Let me make up for this deficit, right now:

I was about ten when I began fictionalizing my life in earnest. It wasn’t
that the world itself was especially disappointing, just my world, my existence,
and I needed a means of making up for all the things I felt I was lacking. I
found myself regularly thinking of places I’d much rather be, other people and
other existences I’d rather be inhabiting. The secrets I made up for myself included
my parents not being my true parents; that I fell from the sky, aged four; that
I washed up on a beach; that I’d travelled through time, but I temporarily had
amnesia. These stories, while they lasted, were precious and I savoured them.

The egocentric nature of this chronic daydreaming
shouldn’t be overlooked, either. Like a little Walter Mitty in the making, the
tales I weaved were entirely self-serving, for nobody’s benefit but my own. I could
nurture some sly untruth about myself and, in some magical way, add a little
ornamentation to what was otherwise so needlessly prosaic and unexciting. I
could wander through the world with a new and secret frame of reference, a new
narrative to live by and through which to reinvigorate the world. And because
my acting out was entirely invisible to anyone else, I could play innocent. After
all, I wasn’t actually doing anything
wrong. Not in a real world, punishable way. And yet I could also enjoy a thrill
of immorality, of rule-breaking and of drawing outside the lines.

There were drawbacks. An over-active imagination can just
as easily conjure devils as angels from the woodwork. Fears of bombs and of
kidnappers spoiled for me a great many excursions in the real world. From the
age of ten to about twelve, I practically had to be chaperoned to sleep; I had
to know there was an adult awake, somewhere, in the house—just in case.